Definition of Home
by Kathryn Claire O'Connor
Summary: Bucky and Steve are soldiers, friends... and mutants, and Bucky catches the attention of Professor Xavier. But he doesn't need a home; he already has one. *Two-shot; takes place post-DOFP*
1. Chapter 1

_1974:_

James had been living this way for years – decades, probably even a century – long enough that he had lost track of the years, the date, even some of the battles and wars entirely. But the one he was living at the moment was long enough that he remembered it. It was called the Vietnam War, he was smack-dab in the middle of it, and for the first time in over a decade, he was freaking out over what was happening around him. He'd spent a lifespan as an apparently-eighteen-years-old soldier, and he knew by now when he was in the middle of a losing battle.

He was in the middle of the Vietnamese jungle, back to back with his one and only remaining brother in arms, and they were losing this little skirmish rather desperately.

His companion was a buff soldier, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and as young as James, who had kept to himself as much as James had until this inconvenient moment had thrown them together. Well, inconvenient for James, anyway; more than likely detrimental to the blonde who's dog tags proclaimed "S. Rogers." James wouldn't die, and he didn't want his only ally to die either, so…

He took a deep breath and demanded loud enough for Rogers to hear over their converging foe, "Don't freak out, okay?"

Before he could second-guess himself, he clenched his fists and swung hard at the oncoming enemy. In rare moments like this when he did employ his mutation – skin that could turn into metal – it really did come in handy.

Rogers wasn't freaking out over his transformation either, oddly enough. In fact, James could've sworn he heard a startled laugh before there was a blast of cold air at his back, and he glanced at Rogers to see that the teen… suddenly had skin made of ice?

James swore, realizing his fellow soldier was also a fellow mutant! And apparently they worked very well together; the enemy was soon lying around them in an unconscious circle.

Once they were certain their foes weren't going to get back on their feet, James blew out a breath and took a step away from Rogers' back, his skin becoming flesh again as he commented, "I feel like James Bond."

Rogers snorted a laugh as he turned to James with an outstretched hand, his skin almost back to normal. "Steven Grant Rogers," he offered.

James accepted his hand with an exhausted smile. "James Buchanan Barnes; nice to meet you, Steve."

Steve gave him a strange look at the nickname, replying amicably, "You too, Bucky."

Bucky laughed out loud before he realized where they still were – surrounded by dead bodies from both sides of the war – and suggested, "What do you say we get out of here?"

Hours later, they were lying across from one another on opposite sides of a fire, staring up at the sky when Bucky commented, "So… ice."

"Metal, huh?" Steve shot back at him.

"You actually did cross my mind," Bucky admitted. "I saw the way you kept to yourself, and I wondered if you might not be a mutant. Told myself I was over thinking a shy kid and let it go, though."

"I'm hardly a kid," Steve snorted.

"How old are you then?" Bucky asked curiously. He'd met a number of mutants in his life, but none of them shared his mutation for not aging past their teen years.

There were a couple of brothers – fellow soldiers and mutants that Bucky had run across a couple of times – who appeared to age _slowly_ , but he'd never met anyone else who'd _stopped_ aging.

"You don't wanna know."

"How slowly do you age, then?"

"Ah," Steve paused. "I don't."

Jackpot! Bucky replied casually, as if it were no big deal, "Me neither." He glanced at Steve, saw how widely he was grinning at that surprising announcement, and asked, "So, where are you from?"

"Brooklyn, New York. You?"

"Romania," Bucky answered faintly, fighting off something that just might be genuine excitement at this turn of events that seemed too good to be true. "But I fled to New York City when my family realized what I was and kicked me out. Eventually I got tired of being homeless and joined the army."

"You're kidding!" Steve laughed, but some of his mirth fell away as he asked cryptically, "Do you ever think about going back?"

"Nothing and no one for me to go back to," Bucky shrugged. "Why?"

Steve sighed and looked back to the sky as he exchanged a question for a question. "Do you ever close your eyes and see them – the battles and the people you've killed?"

"Every night," Bucky murmured solemnly, also going back to staring at the stars.

"If I'm going to live forever, I don't want to spend forever as a soldier, but I'm like you – nothing and nobody to go back to – and at least being in the army gives me someone to count on."

"Exactly," Bucky replied, thrilled beyond words to finally find someone after all this time who _understood._ Then his head snapped up as a thought hit him and he asked carefully, not sure how to word it, "But what if we could count on one another – go back to New York City, you and I?" Steve just stared at him, but Bucky was starting to get enthused about this idea the more he considered it. "I know we just met really, but it's not like we don't have the time to get to know one another! We can get an apartment together if we get a couple of normal teenager jobs and pinch pennies hard enough." He was sitting up now as he continued fiercely, "We could get out of here and live like normal people, you and me. We'd have the best of both worlds – normal and with someone who won't leave us!"

Steve was sitting up now too and the solemnity in his eyes surprised Bucky as he asked, "Promise we'll stick together?"

"Of course we will; I'm not a big enough loner punk to just leave somebody like that."

"Nah," Steve gave him a quick onceover before deciding teasingly, "You're more of a jerk."

"And you're the punk, apparently!" Bucky chuckled as the two of them lay back down.

Steve was still beaming as he declared, "And now you're stuck with me forever."

Bucky beamed to himself as he joked, "New York City better watch out."


	2. Chapter 2

_Brooklyn, New York_

 _December, 1975_

Why, exactly, Bucky often wondered, did he have to stop aging at eighteen? In a great number of ways, it was a disadvantage. Though he was now an old man – year-wise, anyway – he only appeared to be in his teens, which meant that no one would believe him when he tried telling them the truth.

Until he showed them his other little "trick" – and then they became even more hostile.

And none of this was helpful to someone who was in his situation. Absolutely no one was willing to help him out.

And then there were those two guys. For the past couple of hours, the same two guys had been following him, and he really didn't appreciate it. He'd been dodging them, but they kept popping back up.

Eventually, he warily gave up on avoiding them and ducked into a dark alley where he could make good use of his mutation if it became necessary. He leaned against a brick wall under the cover of the shadows and waited. It didn't take long for them to show up.

"Hey, James," Wheelchair Man greeted him softly while Glasses Man wheeled him into the alley.

Bucky stiffened, growling, "How do you know my name?"

The man tapped his temple, saying coyly, "It's a… gift." He smiled carefully, asking, "You understand that concept, don't you?"

"Who the heck _are_ you?" Bucky snarled, shoving his hands into his pockets and hoping the men couldn't see the shift in the cloth as his hands turned into something that wasn't flesh.

Wheelchair smirked knowingly, further unnerving Bucky, as he replied, "My name is Professor Charles Xavier; this is my buddy Dr. Hank McCoy. We want to help you."

"Now why would you want to do a stupid thing like that?"

"Because whether or not you want to admit it, you need us."

"Mm," Bucky pretended to consider this before he shook his head. "No, I don't think so."

"Really?" Xavier asked, sounding amused. "Because from what I know about you – oh, boy, where do I start? – you enlisted at the _beginning_ of the _Civil_ _War_ when you appeared to be about… what?"

"From what I can figure," Mr. McCoy replied evenly, "Somehow… still eighteen."

"That's what I thought," Xavier nodded, continuing, "You used false identities to fight for nearly the next ninety years without your mutation being noticed – always at eighteen years old, which is interesting in and of itself, considering that it's an obvious lie. It's actually admirable in a way – stupid, but admirable. I suspect we'll have plenty of time to talk about _why_ you wanted to fight later; right now my point is that you've spent over a century of your life as a soldier, and in all honesty, you have the most impressive case of PTSD I've seen in a very long time. We only want to help you, James," he declared, propping his elbow against the armrest of his wheelchair, forehead resting against his fingertips.

Bucky insisted, "And I only want you to leave me _alone_."

"No," Xavier sighed, looking at him with detestable _pity_ in his eyes as he said, "You don't. You may look like a child, but you're old enough to understand that you need help. Allow my colleagues and I to do that for you."

"'Colleagues'?" Bucky repeated drily with upraised eyebrows.

"I'm the head of a special school for children like you," Xavier revealed evenly. "And, again, we'd love to have you with us. Granted, we're very small for now – veterans returning from war and all that – but I'd love to see you in our next classes." Bucky just glared at him without a word – until Xavier cocked his head to the side and asked, once again sounding far too innocent, "I am curious, though, as to how and why you returned before so many others. What happened to you, James?" The veteran glared at the man in the wheelchair, his eyes daring him to answer his own question – so Xavier did. "From what I've gathered, you were born in Romania, but it was New York that agreed to take you on during the Civil War and South Vietnam most recently. But twenty years in South Vietnamese regiments was too long, wasn't it? People started talking, they started catching onto the fact that all those identities were the same person; they started catching onto _what_ you were, and they would've soon wanted to turn you into a lab rat. You didn't want that – who would? – so you were already getting antsy when you met Steven. The two of you ran, and that's all you've been doing ever since; don't kid yourself, having an apartment doesn't change what you're actually doing – hiding. You can't want to live this way for the rest of your life, James; come with us back to North Salem and you won't have to. We can protect you from the people who are hunting you, I swear. Just give us a chance, James, and we'll give you the same courtesy."

Bucky stared at him, long and hard, wishing that he had the same ability that this man seemed to – reading people's minds – before he groused, "Just to be clear, I am older than you."

"Yes," Xavier answered with a touch of amusement coloring his voice. "But your mind ages at the same rate as your body, which makes you mentally eighteen, regardless of years lived – and in shows my young friend."

"I am not your friend!" Bucky said fiercely, trying to angle past the man's wheelchair.

"That's not how I meant it," Xavier objected, becoming serious again as he laid a hand on Bucky's arm to stop him. " _It shows_ ," he tapped his temple again when Bucky was quick to jerk away from his touch. "In your mind, in the way you think, in the way you've acted… in the things you're feeling. I _know_ you don't want to be alone, and you don't have to be, James, not anymore. We can give you a home; we _want_ to give you a home, but no one will make you go, and no one will make you stay, or leave, for that matter. It's entirely your choice; we just want you to know that the school is an option for you." He smiled brightly, inquiring, "What do you say, James, would you like to try out a home with us?"

Bucky narrowed his eyes hatefully at the man, backing up and snapping "no!" before he shoved his way past the two men with the use of his now-metallic hands and made a run for it, shouting over his shoulder, "I'm not alone; I've got Stevie, and he's my home!"


End file.
